Read Online George's Grand Tour by Caroline Vermalle - Free Book Online
Authors: Caroline Vermalle
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their own spelling. Text language is a bit odd, but itâs cool, youâll see.â
âAh, OK, itâs got its own spelling has it? But why canât you just write normally?â
The young girl thought for a moment, and it was her friend who finally answered him:
âIt works better if you write them in text language. Itâs, like, quicker.â
George nodded as if he understood. He would have liked to learn more but three English tourists had just arrived with all their suitcases and it was time for him to go up to his room.
On his way back upstairs, he received a reply from Adèle. âOK.â This text language was rather annoying but it had helped take his mind off other things. Adèleâs little message had made him happy. He looked at it several times, but then it was gone, lost in his phone, and he couldnât get it back. At least he knew it was in there somewhere. It was like getting a little postcard. That would really make the girls downstairs laugh, an old fogey saying that text messages were like postcards. But still, it had made him happy.
Sunday 28 September
Brest (Finistère)
George and Charles spent the day exploring the town. George remembered photographs of Brestâs proud arsenal as it stood before the war, with its castle and beautiful ships. But as he kept saying to Charles, the Germans had blown everything up. Wide, dead-straight roads, concrete high-rises and depressing architecture had risen from the rubble. On the receptionistâs advice, the two friends headed for the harbour, which was more authentic and had more going on than the centre of town.
By the time they arrived, they had worked up a thirst, but all the café terraces were overrun with teenagers with funny haircuts. In search of a café âlike the ones back homeâ, they walked along the docks amid cranes and green and red buoys, disused railway lines and rusted grain carts, and soon forgot what it was they had set out to look for. It was a nice day and the sea air was refreshing, even if it did smell slightly of petrol. Their strolltook them right up to the marina at the far end of the harbour. Down a side street, they happened upon Chez Odile, where they settled down to a steak and chips, followed by cheese and coffee. They made slow progress back to the car: they needed time to digest. George managed to take a nap during the ten-minute drive back to the hotel, where they had a well-earned siesta.
Â
It was 6.30 p.m., and Charles had been banging on about one thing all day: he had come to Brittany to eat galettes bretonnes. The hotel reception recommended Crêperie Saint-Malo, just around the corner. At quarter to seven, they were the first diners in the restaurant. Charles was in a great mood, but his travelling companion was squirming in his seat. Eventually, when he couldnât keep quiet any longer, George took the bull by the horns.
âSo, just to be clear, you have no idea how to write texts?â
âNot a clue.â
âRight, because ⦠I have to send one to Adèle this evening. Which is a nice idea, but I donât know how to write them.â
âWhat do you mean, you donât know how? You sent one last night, didnât you?â
âWell, as far as the technology goes, Iâve got it. Itâs not actually that complicated, you know. But anyway, the point is, thereâs a special language. You canât just write a text like youâd write ⦠I dunno, a postcard. You see, it doesnât pack the same punch if itâs written normally,â said George sagely, as if this were a universally acknowledged truth.
âNo, no, of course not,â agreed Charles, not wanting to seem out of touch.
âBut Iâm no expert when it comes to text language.â
âSo how did Adèle write her text, then?â
âWell, she didnât exactly reply in detail ⦠Itâs hard to tell from just one
âAh, OK, itâs got its own spelling has it? But why canât you just write normally?â
The young girl thought for a moment, and it was her friend who finally answered him:
âIt works better if you write them in text language. Itâs, like, quicker.â
George nodded as if he understood. He would have liked to learn more but three English tourists had just arrived with all their suitcases and it was time for him to go up to his room.
On his way back upstairs, he received a reply from Adèle. âOK.â This text language was rather annoying but it had helped take his mind off other things. Adèleâs little message had made him happy. He looked at it several times, but then it was gone, lost in his phone, and he couldnât get it back. At least he knew it was in there somewhere. It was like getting a little postcard. That would really make the girls downstairs laugh, an old fogey saying that text messages were like postcards. But still, it had made him happy.
Sunday 28 September
Brest (Finistère)
George and Charles spent the day exploring the town. George remembered photographs of Brestâs proud arsenal as it stood before the war, with its castle and beautiful ships. But as he kept saying to Charles, the Germans had blown everything up. Wide, dead-straight roads, concrete high-rises and depressing architecture had risen from the rubble. On the receptionistâs advice, the two friends headed for the harbour, which was more authentic and had more going on than the centre of town.
By the time they arrived, they had worked up a thirst, but all the café terraces were overrun with teenagers with funny haircuts. In search of a café âlike the ones back homeâ, they walked along the docks amid cranes and green and red buoys, disused railway lines and rusted grain carts, and soon forgot what it was they had set out to look for. It was a nice day and the sea air was refreshing, even if it did smell slightly of petrol. Their strolltook them right up to the marina at the far end of the harbour. Down a side street, they happened upon Chez Odile, where they settled down to a steak and chips, followed by cheese and coffee. They made slow progress back to the car: they needed time to digest. George managed to take a nap during the ten-minute drive back to the hotel, where they had a well-earned siesta.
Â
It was 6.30 p.m., and Charles had been banging on about one thing all day: he had come to Brittany to eat galettes bretonnes. The hotel reception recommended Crêperie Saint-Malo, just around the corner. At quarter to seven, they were the first diners in the restaurant. Charles was in a great mood, but his travelling companion was squirming in his seat. Eventually, when he couldnât keep quiet any longer, George took the bull by the horns.
âSo, just to be clear, you have no idea how to write texts?â
âNot a clue.â
âRight, because ⦠I have to send one to Adèle this evening. Which is a nice idea, but I donât know how to write them.â
âWhat do you mean, you donât know how? You sent one last night, didnât you?â
âWell, as far as the technology goes, Iâve got it. Itâs not actually that complicated, you know. But anyway, the point is, thereâs a special language. You canât just write a text like youâd write ⦠I dunno, a postcard. You see, it doesnât pack the same punch if itâs written normally,â said George sagely, as if this were a universally acknowledged truth.
âNo, no, of course not,â agreed Charles, not wanting to seem out of touch.
âBut Iâm no expert when it comes to text language.â
âSo how did Adèle write her text, then?â
âWell, she didnât exactly reply in detail ⦠Itâs hard to tell from just one
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